So Let Me Go Under
by Red Bess Rackham
Summary: An Avenger is killed on a mission, and the remaining team members have to figure out how to move forward. Clint/Natasha -centric. For Het Big Bang 2013. (T for semi-graphic descriptions, heavy themes, moderate language.)
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Don't own rights, entertainment purposes only, etc.

**A/n:** This started as a singular image, then spawned into a drabble, which morphed into a oneshot and snowballed into this. It made me so depressed to write (cried a couple times in fact) but I had to get it out. Prepare yourself, this ain't gonna be a happy ride (though I promise there is _some_ happy in it). This is my entry, my Little Bang, in Het Little/Big Bang 2013. :D _(Originally posted to AO3.)_

Thank you to my gorgeous betas, **morgieporgie** and **stars_inthe_sky**, who combed over this thing. Also a big thanks to **finaljoy**, who caught some mistakes in the 11th hour, and to a big number of people around the online 'verse who have been all manner of encouraging (and chomping at the bit to read this, even though several of you promised to never speak to me again if I killed your favorite Avenger.) Any remaining mistakes are all me.

**Warning**: character death, moderate language, over-the-top villain-of-the-week, tragedy, angst, feels, etc.

* * *

**So Let Me Go Under**

If ever there was a villain who completely misunderstood the concept of subtlety, it was Isaac Vosler.

For the past four months, his attacks on the public had increased in severity and frequency, and he consistently avoided capture. SHIELD left the man to the local police until Vosler began boasting openly about having procured a piece of sensitive alien tech. The facts they uncovered seemed to support his claim, so Fury sent in a team of agents to handle the situation. It turned out to be one huge, elaborate trap, however, simply to get SHIELD's attention. The incident ended with three agents dead and Vosler himself pulling yet another disappearing act.

That little stunt earned him a rising position on Fury's Most Wanted: Dead List. Several task forces at SHIELD were assigned exclusively to locating Vosler, though the man proved to be infuriatingly elusive, slipping between SHIELD's fingers more than once, and managing to set up multiple ostentatious attacks without getting caught.

This only increased Fury's determination to catch the bastard.

* * *

"A charity event? Well, aren't you lucky," Clint quips. He strides into the kitchen, scooping up a shiny apple from the fruit bowl on the counter.

"You're sure you can't come too?" Steve implores.

"Schmoozing with rich folks _actually_ isn't my idea of a good time." The archer takes a noisy bite of the apple in his hand.

Steve sighs. "Well, it's not mine either, but it's important."

Clint rolls his eyes and settles onto one of the kitchen stools. "Or so Stark and Fury say. Keeping up good public opinion and all that. I think the public opinion should be pretty damn good after stopping the giant robot from frying Albany last week, but that's just me."

His friend chuckles and smooths down the front of his formal suit jacket, like he needs something to keep his hands occupied. There is a slight crease in his brow; he has reservations about having to suffer through another event like this one.

Natasha lets out a low whistle as she enters the room, dressed in a simple black shirt and leggings. "Cap, you clean up nice."

Steve laughs and the worry melts away momentarily. "I try."

"I don't," Tony grins as he follows Natasha in. He holds out his hands, palms up. "I always look this good."

"Aw, and he's so _humble_," Clint mocks, lifting his bare feet up onto the other stool at the kitchen island.

"Shut it, Bird Boy, or I'll give an executive order here, and you'll _all_ have to drink champagne, wear fancy clothes and get fawned over – wait, remind me again why you two _aren't_ going?" The billionaire glances between Clint and Natasha.

"We're holding down the fort," the archer munches another bite of his apple, then adds, "In case something wacky happens."

"You'll call us if something _does_ happen?" asks Steve, almost pleading.

"Of course," Natasha crosses the room to stand beside Clint.

"Please, dear God, call," the captain says seriously.

"Come on Rogers, it'll be better than you think." Tony claps his friend on the back then gestures to the doorway and starts heading towards it. Steve follows, though visibly reluctant, pulling at his suit again.

"I went to the last one," he grumbles.

"And it _was_ better than you thought!"

Steve glares at Tony. "Because Pepper was there and she was able to keep some of those _women_ away from me after _you _bailed and left me there."

Tony opens his mouth to protest as the pair reaches the elevator.

"Again." Steve gives the "down" button a poke.

"Well." Tony shrugs.

"They were at _least _seventy-five years old! They wouldn't leave me alone!"

The elevator chimes softly and the doors part before them.

"They were close to your age – that's good."

"Har har," says Steve humourlessly.

Tony's laugh trails after him as he and Steve step into the elevator, while Natasha and Clint exchange amused glances, thankful they have been spared a night of schmoozing. They've endured their fair share of events like this one, but given their jobs as spies, it's generally wiser to let Tony and Steve be the public faces of the team. Bruce's and Thor's required appearances are more selective as well: Bruce fares much better in a science crowd, while Thor is great at entertaining senators' wives, who find him manly and quaint.

Natasha twists the silver tap handle to get herself a glass of water as Clint works on the last of his apple.

"Bruce still down in the lab?" he asks without glancing her way.

"Last I saw him."

She hears his apple core _thunk_ in the garbage can nearby but doesn't face him until she's finished drinking half of the water in her cup. When she does turn to him, the look he is giving her causes her pulse to quicken and she feels her cheeks grow warm. She holds his gaze for a moment longer, then drinks the last of her water. His eyes trace over every inch of her and a shiver trickles down her spine.

"I need to go for a run," she finally says, determined to ignore the focused heat in his stare.

"Then go for your run," he replies and stands. He shoots her a sexy smirk, then pads down the hall to his room. Just before he disappears through his door, he glances back at her and grins.

_Damn it, Clint_, she thinks, smiling too. He made her feel weak in the best way sometimes. She looks over at the clock on the wall.

She could go for a run tomorrow.

* * *

A couple hours later, Natasha emerges from Clint's room wearing an old blue t-shirt of his and a pair of black shorts. Bruce is in the kitchen and nods in greeting when he sees her approach. The kettle on the counter begins to whistle urgently and he unplugs it.

"Tea?" he offers.

She nods and while he retrieves a mug for her, she scoops a tea bag out of the box by the kettle. Bruce pours her some water, long tendrils of steam curling up and out.

"Thank you," she says and takes the patterned mug from him, dropping the tea bag in. "So, how goes it down in the lab, Doctor?"

"Oh, you know, I'm just tinkering."

Natasha raises her eyebrow a tiny bit as she stirs her tea, then says, "I thought it was something very important."

Bruce buries his head in the fridge but she still hears him reply, "Important tinkering."

"That project you said you had to finish..."

He comes out of the fridge with a jar each of mayonnaise and pickles in hand, and gives her a smile. It's one part sheepish, and one part unapologetic triumph.

"Ah." She sets down her mug, the corner of her lips turning up just barely. "I see Clint and I weren't the only ones who made excuses to get out of yet another unbearable charity event."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Bruce says and fishes out a pickle from the jar with a fork. As he bites into it, however, that smile on his face gives him away. "I told you, it's _very_ important tinkering." He adds with a chuckle, "Or it could be."

Natasha nods approvingly. "Well played."

When Clint joins them in the kitchen a few minutes later, with mussed up hair and a red mark peeking out from the collar of his worn gray t-shirt, Bruce tactfully does not comment. This is something Natasha appreciates about Bruce. She knows if it were Tony in the kitchen at that moment instead, he would be smirking insufferably and either outright asking how the sex was or skirting the question with innuendo.

Bruce doesn't look fussed or uncomfortable either, where as poor Steve usually seems like he doesn't know how he's supposed to react, _especially_ when Tony gets going on the subject. It's not that Steve is a prude or even inexperienced, it's simply that it's not a subject he is at all comfortable acknowledging in public (even if the "public" happens to be merely the other team members).

In turn, aside from a mildly surprised raise of his eyebrow, Clint doesn't remark about the fact that Bruce is now dipping pickles into a bowl of mayo. At this point, they're too used to Bruce's occasionally bizarre eating habits to be really shocked by much of anything he consumes. Natasha is reminded of the time Bruce ordered sardines and limes on his pepperoni pizza.

"Tea?" she asks Clint and, at his nod, pours her partner a mugful.

"I wonder how Steve and Tony are faring?" Bruce wonders aloud and crunches down on a pickle covered with mayonnaise.

* * *

They were, in fact, faring horribly.

The night started out regular enough: women dripping in baubles doting on Steve, men with big bellies and even bigger bank accounts persuaded to donate money to the cause, and Tony floating from social circle to social circle being his usual blindingly charming self. Steve is holding his own, though, smiling and modest despite all the attention while Tony downs his fourth or fifth glass of champagne.

The program is only about halfway complete when all hell breaks loose.

The entire back wall of the banquet hall is ripped off, and the chandeliers previously washing the room in a pleasant warm glow, sputter out in a shower of sparks. Brilliant strobe lights bathe the area with glaring white light as people panic, screaming and shouting, bolting for the exits, scrambling away from the spotlights and the smoking heap that once was the far wall by the stage.

Steve stumbles through the crowd searching for Tony. He doesn't get very far when something collides with him with such force that he is slammed to the ground and knocked out cold.

On the other side of the room, Tony is frantically jabbing at his watch, trying to raise Jarvis or Pepper or the team – _somebody_ – but something is jamming his signal. He curses repeatedly. His suitcase armor is in his car, and should come to him on its own, but if the signal tracking himself has been cut off, it'll take a few minutes before it switches to emergency mode. If he can just _get_ to it –

There is an incredible roaring noise behind him. Tony turns, shielding his eyes from the light and his body from the frenzied guests. Before he can react further, he is in the same position as Cap: unconscious on the floor.

* * *

It only takes moments following Fury's call for Clint, Natasha, and Bruce to change clothes and climb aboard Stark's equivalent of a quinjet. Fury doesn't have much intel for them, only that the charity event the other two were attending has been attacked. There are reports of a number of injuries and no deaths yet, but Stark and Rogers are missing.

"We think it's Vosler," the director informs them as the jet levels out in the air. "And we think we know where he went. Sending you the coordinates now."

* * *

The trio approach the compound with extreme caution. The building is two levels with no windows, and only a few visible doors. It's unremarkable and deceptively innocent in appearance, appearing to hold no threats, but Natasha doesn't buy that for a second. She would be lying if she said she wasn't feeling particularly edgy with this mission.

Though she hasn't had to deal with Vosler and his madness personally, she's read the reports and heard the stories. The guy is off-the-rails crazy with an overblown ego, and he adores showy, elaborate set-ups. About three weeks ago, Clint and a small team of SHIELD agents had had to deal with a bomb that was set to go off at a certain time unless a puzzle was solved (involving marbles, chutes, pulleys, and axes). Following that incident, the archer had nick-named Vosler "Rattigan", after the villain in _The Great Mouse Detective._ Natasha thinks it's quite fitting.

Bruce, Natasha, and Clint edge closer, the scientist first, so he can change form and protect his team should the need arise. Hill is standing by a few blocks over with a team of agents at the ready, and she orders an electronic sweep of the building.

"Anything?" asks Clint, bow raised and arrow nocked, eyes darting over every line of the gray building and the expanse of dusty yellow dirt before them.

_"Not that we can see,_" Hill reports. _"There's a lot of interference – odd heat signatures – but as far as I can tell, there's only three warm bodies inside._"

"Vosler, Steve, and Tony?" says Natasha.

"Hopefully," Clint mumbles. Sunlight glints off the arrow tip at the ready in his bow.

Natasha raises her gun and turns to cover their backs. Before long, they reach the doors to the place without incident. She stiffens a little, unsure. Should it have been that easy? Or is this all part of the trap? She knows they need to be prepared for almost anything – they're carrying even more gear than usual to protect themselves against the possible threats Vosler may have set up for them.

Bruce and Natasha hang back, every sense on alert, as Clint inspects the lock. It's not electronic, which surprises all three of them. The archer picks the lock swiftly, but still wary of possible booby traps, he proceeds with extreme caution. He backs away from the door and gives it a little kick to open it, bow again at the ready. When nothing immediately happens, he takes a slow step forward, poking his bow over the threshold and briefly pulling back.

Natasha finds herself holding her breath.

"Doorway's clear," Clint reports. He takes another step in, farther this time but no less gingerly.

_This is torture_, she thinks, watching her partner proceed, keeping an eye on every direction as he moves. Bruce follows, then Natasha. _Something needs to go off somewhere. It can't be this easy._

Before she is entirely in the room with her team, Natasha bends a bobby pin into the catch in the doorjamb to prevent it from locking behind them, just in case, or should Hill need to follow for extraction. Planning to do it on the next door they encounter, it makes her think of Hansel and Gretel leaving breadcrumbs for their father in the woods, and she almost smiles.

The room the team have entered is unremarkable and rather like a garage: gray and cement, echoing and large without being expansive. There's nothing in it besides them, however – no decorations, no furniture, machines of any kind – and she notes this with worry as she tries to understand what Vosler's plans are.

In the next room, it becomes slightly clearer.

The second room is similar to the first in size and shape, though this room has lines carved into the stone floor, similar to a giant checkerboard. At each corner where four squares touch, however, there is a smaller square, some colored blue, some red, some green. Bruce and Clint exchange uneasy looks, stopping before the grid.

_He wanted to lull us into a false sense of security_, Natasha thinks. _Here's the trap. Or maybe he just wants to screw with us as much possible_. She decides it's probably the latter, when speak of the devil, the man's voice comes booming over speakers in the ceiling.

"_Welcome_," Vosler greets them, his voice harsh and entirely too glee-filled. "_Let's not waste time because you and your friends don't have much of it, now do you? You know who I am, and I, of course, know who you are._"

"Yeah, cut to the chase," Clint snaps with the roll of his eyes. "What are we supposed to do?"

"_Let's see if your friends are as good at puzzles as you are, Agent Barton_," Vosler says and Clint frowns, remembering his last encounter with Vosler's antics. _"Red, blue, green. You cannot be on the same color. You cannot switch colors. You cannot be in the same row, the same column. You cannot touch the plain, uncolored squares._"

"What happens if we do?" Bruce asks sharply, enjoying this about as much as the two assassins are.

_"Why don't you find out?_" Vosler laughs, and there's a loud click. Apparently he's done talking.

Natasha looks to Clint, who immediately looses an arrow. It flies to the tile in the corner farthest away from them and lands square in the middle. The moment the arrow touches down, the panel explodes, a small fireball erupting with a bone-jarring _boom_. The archer swallows uncomfortably.

"Okay. So there's that," he says.

"And we need to hurry," Natasha puts in. "We don't know how much time he's going to give us to do this before he blows us apart anyways."

"I could just use the Other Guy – run across, blow them all up," suggests Bruce. "I'd survive and could then come back and get you."

The intercom clicks back on. _"I wouldn't risk that, doctor,_" says Vosler. _"Particularly since the area you are currently standing on will fall away when the weight on it changes._"

Bruce clenches his jaw and looks down, as if he can deduce if Vosler is telling the truth or not by staring at the cement beneath his feet.

_"No exchanging spots, no going one at a time._"

"How do you expect us to get _on_ your little board then?" Natasha questions flatly.

"_That is part of the puzzle, now isn't it, Agent Romanoff?_" Click.

Clint runs his hand through his hair, making it stick up. "We have to step on together."

"We don't _have_ to do anything," Bruce shakes his head, agitated. "We can figure a way out of this that doesn't involve playing with this guy."

"Are you willing to take the chance he won't kill us right now if we don't?" Natasha says.

"How do _you_ know he won't kill us the moment we start his little game?" Bruce counters.

"Because this guy wants the challenge – he wants the game," she explains. She spent the whole flight here studying Vosler's case file. "He wants the opponent to be subjected to his psychopathic mind games. Killing us straight out is too easy and that's not the goal. _Winning_ isn't even the goal, so much as _playing_."

Clint sighs, grimly agreeing with her. "If we don't play, we _definitely_ die – and so do Steve and Tony. But we go along with this stuff and we have a chance."

"So what you're saying is, we don't have a choice," says Bruce, tone hard. "We die, or we _maybe_ die."

Natasha almost shrugs. "There's always a choice, doctor." With a little smile she adds, "And is that really different from other missions we've been on?"

The physicist holds her gaze for another moment before pursing his lips slightly. "Well, then let's pick a color."

* * *

True to Vosler's word, the moment the trio step onto the colored parts of the checkerboard, the floor they previously were standing on rumbles and opens like a giant trap door. It is impossible to tell how deep the area beneath is, but by the way the doors echo when they fully extend into the hole, it is certainly a long fall.

They pick their way across Vosler's board, slow and smart. Twice they almost misstep, causing two of them to be in the same row or column, and once, when Bruce hops from one blue tile to the next, he nearly loses his balance. Natasha sucks in her breath sharply while Clint reaches out fruitlessly from across the board and calls his friend's name.

Bruce catches himself and exhales, glancing at the other two with relief, and they continue, eventually making it to the far side of the checkerboard.

When they reach the edge, Natasha is wary about taking a step forward, so Clint tries to test the floor a bit by firing some arrows down hard to see if it's a weight sensitive panel like the entrance. When it doesn't move, Bruce gingerly puts his foot forward, then the other. When he deems the floor stable and safe, the assassins leave the checkerboard and join Bruce at the door.

Clint rolls his shoulders and readies his bow. "I don't know how much of this I'm going to be able to take."

"Let's hope the guys are on the other side of this door," says Bruce, unconvinced.

"Let's hope _Vosler_ is there so I can kick his ass," Natasha murmurs under her breath.

The third room is long and narrow like a hallway and seemingly empty, though Natasha doesn't trust that for one second. Bruce ventures ahead, and Natasha can't help thinking of _Raiders of the Lost Ark _when the guy rushes ahead of Indy and gets speared. She forces the image from her mind and reminds herself that should something like that occur, the Hulk will keep Bruce from harm, while she and Clint will be forewarned about the next obstacle.

There's a distinct _click_ and for a second Natasha thinks it's Vosler on his intercom, about to taunt them again. Somewhere in the middle of the hall right by Bruce, however, there's a small explosion and suddenly smoke and gas cloud the room.

_"Bruce!"_ Natasha cries in the same second Clint shouts, "_Get down!"_

The world spins and she hits the ground hard, her partner atop her. The wind rushes out of her and her head cracks against the floor, stunning her briefly. Clint has covered her body with his, and in the moment it takes for her to recover her senses, she realizes the strange pressure on her face is a gas mask. Around her, she can see the gas floating mostly above them, while Clint is pressing the mask to her face with one hand, and sputtering and hacking into the crook of his other arm.

Natasha's heart skips a beat. She reaches down to her belt to retrieve her own mask, and frowning, she shifts so she can press it onto Clint's face. They switch their hands so that they're each holding their own mask on and after several seconds, the gas is visibly clearing.

Another couple seconds pass, and then she feels Clint ease a few inches off her, then a few more, until he is fully off and sitting up. He taps her shoulder.

"Tasha, we're good. It's already dissipating," he notes. The air is indeed much clearer as the gas moves up to the ceiling and out a vent.

She raises herself up beside him and can see Bruce laying flat on his back in the middle of the hall. The fact that he didn't change form is extremely concerning.

"Not so sure about Bruce, though." The archer grimaces, removing his mask. "That hit him hard – he was close."

Natasha pulls her mask away from her face slowly, and her partner seems oblivious to the fire in her eyes.

"Why did you do that?" she asks sharply.

"It's fine, Natasha." Clint climbs to his feet, dusting himself off.

"Clint, why the _hell_ did you do that?"

He ignores her, re-clipping his mask to his belt.

"I had my own mask," she presses hotly.

"We better make sure Bruce is all right. I don't know why he didn't Hulk…" Clint adds in a mumble, still refusing to acknowledge her anger.

She clenches her jaw tight. "I _had_ my own mask."

"_I know_." He relents sharply, but doesn't spare her a glance as he starts down the hall towards Bruce.

She grabs his forearm and stops him, forces him to look her in the eye. "You used yours on me."

"There was a gas bomb. It could've killed us."

"You used _your_ mask on _me_."

Clint twists out of her grip. "I just reacted faster."

Natasha curls her fingers into a hard fist at her side. She doesn't have the words to express how much this bothers her. It is one thing for her to risk getting gassed herself; it is another for Clint to expose himself in order to save her. She glares at his back as he strides over to Bruce, unconscious on the floor.

She struggles with her emotions and follows. Hearing Natasha approach, he says over his shoulder,

"You're welcome, by the way."

"Clint," Natasha grits her teeth. "You don't get to – "

"Yes, I do," he replies before she can finish. "And let's not squabble about saving each other's lives. You've saved me plenty of times. I'm the hero this time; you can get me next time." He flashes her a grin.

_That's not the point_, she wants to say. _What if the gas _had_ been fatal? What if you were laying there choking, giving up your life for me?_

"You could've grabbed your own mask," he says, leaning down to inspect Bruce. "I guess my reflexes are better."

He's trying to make light of it like they normally do, but she doesn't want to let him. She's still glaring daggers at him, but Clint is ignoring her. Natasha bites her tongue before she snaps again, though she can tell by the way he's dodging her looks that he knows _exactly_ how furious she is with him.

_Suppose I had to do this all by myself_, she thinks. _Suppose _I _had to rescue _all _your asses_. Then again, it wouldn't be the first time.

She decides to save the argument for another time and instead focuses worried eyes on Bruce's face, which is pale and slack. "Is he…?"

"No," Clint assures her. "There's a pulse."

"Let's get him out of the way."

Together, the pair maneuvers Bruce near the door they came in and prop him up in the corner. His airway is clear and he's breathing alright, so they surmise that the gas must've only been some sort of knock-out gas. She hopes he won't Hulk out when he wakes up disoriented, but she knows they can't stick around until he comes to in order to calm him. They have to press on and find Tony and Steve as fast as possible – and they don't know what other horrors Vosler still has in store for them.

She taps the comm in her ear. "Hill? Banner's down. You have our coordinates?"

_"Copy,"_ comes Hill's voice. _"You want a hand?"_

"If you can swing it."

_"Dispatching an extraction team now."_

"Watch yourself – this guy has booby traps in every room," Natasha warns. "Second one is full of explosives. Third had some sort of gas."

_"Copy. ETA three minutes,"_ Hill returns.

Natasha glances at Bruce's unmoving form, reluctant to leave him there out in the open, especially with Vosler still at large.

Clint catches her gaze and his look says _I know_. "We can't help Rogers and Stark if we stay here. We don't know how many more rooms there are until we find them."

_We can't help Bruce if we go_, she thinks.

"We can't do anything for him right now either, Nat," Clint says as if reading her thoughts. "Hill is coming. He'll be alright."

_"Agents are crossing the grounds in two,"_ Hill's voice crackles in her ear. _"We've got you covered."_

Natasha thanks Hill and double taps her comm. She nods to Clint, steeling herself, and guns and bow up, they approach the next door.

* * *

Clint and Natasha make it through two more rooms, and by that point, Natasha is seriously edgy and pissed off – an extraordinarily dangerous combination. She silently vows that Vosler is going to pay for putting them through all this.

Twice Vosler comes back on the intercom to taunt them, and when Clint and Nat are doused with some sort of thick, colorless slime, the villain is practically crying with laughter. The goo turns out to be slightly corrosive as it eats holes in their clothes and starts to leave a mild rash on their skin.

Clint curses loud and attempts to wipe the stuff off as best he can, but everything is drenched with it. They exit the slime room and head into a room that's dry and well-lit, with Vosler standing on the far side, chortling to himself. He's stocky but tall, with dark hair (though visibly balding) and a thin mustache.

"You are nearly there – well done," he sneers joyfully, as if this has all been a fun little video game. For him, Natasha supposes, it has been.

"Yeah, good for us, Rattigan," Clint retorts. He tries to ready his bow, but the slime is clinging to every surface and his fingers slip. Vosler is virtually beaming and Natasha starts forward purposefully, emotionless, gun in hand.

She is so freaking _done_.

"I would stay back, if I were you, Agent Romanoff," Vosler warns, ignoring the archer's jibe.

Behind her, Clint calls, "Nat, watch it, we don't know – "

She doesn't slow down and Vosler makes a motion with his arm as if he is about to reach behind him. "Do not take another step fo – "

Without breaking her stride, Natasha cuts him off mid-sentence with two shots to the chest.

"_Tasha_," Clint says with a touch of exasperation. "You can't just _shoot_ him."

She reaches the downed villain's body. "Already did."

"We might need him – "

Vosler is struggling for breath, but managing to laugh. "You – you think I was not prepared for – "

Natasha aims her gun at his head and he stops, the smile slipping off his features. "I can still shoot you in the head where you're _not_ covered in Kevlar."

Vosler swallows and she can see his mind working rapidly – this is one scenario he genuinely hadn't considered: that she would be so brazen. She doesn't give him the chance to come up with a solution and instead slams her fist into his head, knocking him out.

Clint has caught up by this point, bow and arrow aimed at Vosler's unmoving form. "Look, I want to kill him too, but if we need him, Nat…"

"We'll deal," she replies flatly. "I'm tired of playing games." She taps the comm in her ear. "Hill? Proceed. He's down."

_"Copy, Agent Romanoff."_

Natasha bends down and starts stripping Vosler. First his jacket, which she tosses to Clint, followed by Vosler's shirt for herself to use. They use the clothes as rags to wipe down themselves and their weapons. Next she removes the bullet-proof vest with two sizeable dents in it and throws it far out of reach of the unconscious villain. She deftly slips a set of zip ties out of her belt and proceeds to secure Vosler's limbs. _Tightly_.

"You didn't know if he had anything set up in this room," Clint shakes his head, cleaning off his quiver. "You just plowed straight ahead – he could've killed you."

"He didn't." She frowns at the smattering of holes in her suit across her arms and legs caused by the slime. The skin beneath is itchy and she wonders what chemicals the pair were drenched with.

"After the exploding tiles, gas, trap doors, laser beams and the other shit he put us through, that was unnecessarily risky, and you know it."

Natasha stops wiping herself down and faces her partner. "What I know is what he wanted: a final showdown. He wanted to put on a performance. He taunted us and forced us to puzzle our way through this damn maze of his. It was all for this."

"Nat."

This is what she does: she reads people, she gathers information and profiles based on how a person acts, and what they say. She hears what others don't, can get a lock on motives and personality after a short amount of time. She's read about other missions involving Vosler; she studied his profile on the quinjet over here. She's unclear why Clint is questioning her on this when he knows she's right.

She continues, not taking her eyes away from Clint's, trying to make him properly listen to her. "He wanted to savor it, draw it out to the grand finale. He expected us to be manipulated into dropping our weapons and go into the final part unarmed. He wanted to beat us and trap us. He wasn't going to kill us right away."

Clint presses his lips together briefly. "I get it, Nat, but…"

She crosses her arms over her chest. "He underestimated us – I wasn't going to let him _have_ what he wanted."

"But, you couldn't have _known _– "

"You couldn't have known that gas wouldn't kill you," she interrupts him, sharp and cold.

He falls quiet at this.

_We both could've died, and we didn't,_ she thinks stubbornly. _We're even._ This is practically the story of their lives.

Natasha doesn't meet his eyes again or continue the conversation until they've cleaned themselves off as best they can. When she finally does look at him, his mouth is set in a grim line.

_He's angry that I gambled with my life?_ she thinks. _Well, now he understands why I was pissed at him earlier._

They wordlessly face the door and as Natasha reaches out to open it, she prays they find their friends on the other side so they can finally end this nightmare.

* * *

"You've got to be kidding me."

Clint can't help openly staring at the sight before him, his mouth slack. Natasha isn't doing much better.

"Did we suddenly get stuck in a Bond movie? Like one of the really cheesy over-the-top ones that everybody likes to make fun of? Because this is actually possibly one of the most insane things we've ever had to deal with." Clint shakes his head. "And I'm including everything that came before in this funhouse. And the giant sea turtle fish things coming out a wormhole to space, and that slimy three-headed thing from another dimension last month."

Natasha can't disagree, swallowing hard.

The pair have walked into a massive room, into what appears to have been some sort of factory once upon a time, though it has since been modified. They spot their team members, though the situation is possibly about as bad as it could be.

Tony is without his suit, strapped down flat to a metal gurney, with an enormous whirring saw suspended above him. Currently it's roughly twenty or so feet away from connecting with him, but it's crawling steadily closer. Steve, meanwhile, is to the left, bound and gagged, slamming his shoulder against the glass walls of the small one-man tank he's contained in. Water is trickling in, already ankle deep. There's a huge clock situated between the two, ticking too loud to be a regular clock.

To make matters worse, as the two assassins frantically survey the set-up, it's clear that Vosler has thought of perhaps every angle to ensure that rescue could not be more difficult. The tank and the saw are connected by pulleys, panels and cables. Open the tank, and the saw drops. Stop the saw, and gigantic metal tumblers slam into place to render the tank completely unable to be opened.

Clint is cursing under his breath and Natasha agrees.

_Tick, tick, tick…_

"Okay, I'll take the saw, you take the tank," Natasha instructs, eyes darting from mechanism to mechanism trying to spot a trap or a way out. "I'll try to get Tony out of the way – then we don't have to worry about the saw and we can just focus on Steve."

Clint nods and the pair separate.

Natasha crosses the expanse before her at a hard run, hopping over an unmoving conveyor belt and ducking under large rusting machine arms. She clambers on top of a set of metal crates and shimmies up a thick set of chains, before alighting onto a beam situated beside Tony's gurney.

"What the hell took you so long?" he snaps the moment he sees her, but his voice is brimming with relief despite the heated tone. One side of his face is bloody and bruised, his once-pristine suit is torn and dirty, and he's nearly drenched with sweat.

"Had to stop for drive-thru," she quips and glances up at the saw, noting its gradual descent. She swears she's seen this in a movie somewhere.

"How wonderful for you – I hope it was worth it," the billionaire complains. "Tell me you have a plan?"

"I am…" she begins, studying the multiple thick leather straps binding Tony to the gurney. "Working on it."

"Work faster, because there is literally _a giant saw_ coming at me and it's going to chop off my lower half!" he says, his tone turning into a shout. "I like my lower half! Some of my most favorite body parts are located on my lower half!"

"Some?" Natasha smirks, brandishing her knife and getting to work on the absurd amount of straps.

"Okay, only one part in particular. It's so big and – "

"_Stop talking. _God, Stark, I think you are the only person alive who could manage innuendo when they are literally minutes away from being cut in two."

"It's why you love me," he replies, sounding shaky despite his best efforts.

"It's why I hate you. Now, shut up."

She's through the first set of straps by his ankles in seconds, but immediately fears she's not moving fast enough. The whine of the saw is harsh and loud, and she's certain it might even be descending faster. While approximately twenty or so feet above her teammate when she'd arrived, it's now closer to eight or nine.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God…" Tony is mumbling.

To distract him, Natasha asks, "So why didn't you just call Jarvis to send you some help, huh? Thought that's what he was for."

"There was some sort of jammer – I couldn't get a call out and then I was unconscious," he explains as she dispatches the second and third straps around his calves and thighs. "Thought _you_ all would be here sooner. Where's Bruce?"

"Out cold. There was gas. And slime and lasers – it was very exciting. Too bad you missed it."

"That explains the moth eaten garb you're wearing," he teases. His eyes are back on the saw, however, and she hates the fear there. She's going to get him out of this.

Another strap gone, this one across his stomach, and now the saw is roughly five feet and closing. She's ducking low but can still feel the air kicking up above her. She briefly wonders how Clint is faring with Steve, but she hasn't heard any noise of triumph and assumes their situation hasn't improved.

"If I die by brutal slicing, make sure you tell Pepper – " Tony starts.

"Save it," Natasha snaps, vigorously slicing through the straps at his chest and arms as fast as she can. The saw is _right_ above them.

With another snap, the last strap is gone and she unceremoniously grabs Tony by the collar and hauls him off the platform. He scrambles frantically, she holds him tight, and then the saw drops the last couple feet, sparking on the gurney.

There's a brief moment for Natasha to feel a little sick about how close that was, Tony to laugh nervously, tangled atop her, and then she hears Clint shout from below.

Tony and Natasha hurry to their feet and he follows her (though much less gracefully) as she hops from one beam to the next, vaults off onto another tower of crates, then swings down chains to the floor. Natasha pounds over to where Clint is standing outside the tank containing Steve. The water has risen to the captain's shoulders by this point, and like the saw, she suspects that it's moving faster the longer they are here.

"I tried opening it," Clint gestures to the huge handles situated on top of the tank's lid. "But I couldn't do it by myself. I tried to figure out how to stop the water flow, but there's no controls for it. That damn slime did a number on my explosives – they don't work worth a shit. I couldn't blow open the lid or the glass."

Natasha blows air out her lips and tries not to look directly at Steve, who is still bound, gagged, and so utterly helpless.

_Tick, tick, tick…_

"Wow," Tony shakes his head at the clock. "That is annoying. I couldn't hear it with the saw, but that is… _amazingly_ annoying." He faces the tank again and she can see his eyes jumping around the area as he tries to find a solution as well.

"Well there's two of us now, let's get the lid off," she suggests. "We can pull him out after that."

Clint nods and the pair of them climb adjoining machinery to get themselves atop the tank. The handles are massive and Natasha wraps both hands around hers, gripping it tight. At the same time, the pair push and Natasha lets out a groan of strain as the metal moves laboriously slow, scraping and grinding. Suddenly the handle gives way smoothly, clanking into place with a booming _thud_. This is followed by a series of other even noisier clanks and Natasha steps back hastily, worried.

Clint curses loudly. "I think we just locked it."

Natasha swears under her breath as well – Vosler had been expecting them to try that. "Now what?"

The archer glances at the mechanisms surrounding them and she does too, but she can't see a solution. Her worry level is rising, though she keeps it contained. They can get out of this – they've gotten out of worse.

_Well_, she thinks. _Worse might be relative._

"Tony, anything?" Clint calls down to the billionaire.

Natasha turns hopefully but Tony has collapsed on the cement floor. She shouts for him and the assassins scramble down off the tank. She makes it to him first, quickly checking for a pulse.

"What the hell – what's wrong with him?" Clint questions anxiously.

Natasha shakes her head. "I don't know – maybe he has a concussion. Maybe Vosler put some sort of sedative in him before he left him to get chopped up. He's alive, just unconscious."

Clint rakes his fingers through his hair in frustration. "What do we do? Nat, _what do we do_?"

_Tick, tick, tick…_

She licks her lips and can feel her heart hammering in her chest. Nothing is coming to her mind. She wonders if this was Vosler's plan all along and she was wrong about him; that he _wanted _her to take him out of the equation so he couldn't be used to help them. That he always intended for only one teammate to be saved from this, but not both. She wonders if she has just chosen Tony over Steve without realizing it by rescuing him first.

The tank is almost full, and Steve is kicking desperately, struggling to keep his face above the water. Natasha gets to her feet and hurries to the tank, running her hands over every inch, trying to figure out a plan, an angle, a flaw, _anything_. This cannot end; she will _not_ let it end. Not like this.

Clint starts pacing, yanking arrows from his quiver, trying to see if there's anything he can do to fix the situation with them. She can tell he's pissed off and freaking out, but he's holding back, stubbornly focusing on discovering a solution. When he has tossed almost all of his arrows to the ground, furious and frustrated, he starts pulling items from the utility belt around his waist instead, desperate to find something useful.

The water level is at the very top and there is no more room for oxygen. Steve floats downwards in the tank, holding his breath. Natasha knows he can hold it for a lot longer than most people, but she doesn't want to test _how_ long. She feels panic rising in her chest – _this cannot be it, this cannot be over, please, Steve, hold on…_

"Wait, _wait_!" Clint rushes over and grabs Natasha.

"What?"

"The lipstick!" the archer shouts.

Her heart leaps into her throat.

She has a tube of lipstick that is actually a nifty little piece of tech that SHIELD created for their female operatives. It has all the appearances of being a normal tube of lipstick but take the whole tube of red out and mash it onto a surface, and it activates, becoming a powerful explosive that will go off in seconds.

"You're gonna have to Ethan Hunt it," Clint says frantically. Natasha doesn't keep explosive gum on her person but the lipstick is the same concept, and this mission is pretty impossible without it.

"It's all I can think of. Unless you have a better plan."

Natasha swallows hard. Unfortunately, she does not.

She digs feverishly into her pockets and pouches to retrieve the lipstick, hands shaking slightly. The explosion will most definitely rupture the tank, but there is a very good chance the explosion may also kill the man inside it. As Steve's body squirms and struggles, completely submerged, however, she knows they are entirely out of options.

"God, Steve, please don't die." She squishes the brilliant red stick into a pasty lump in her hand and slaps it against the tank.

The pair stumble backwards, ducking behind a platform and hauling Tony's unconscious body with them.

_Tick, tick…boom._

There's a deafening crashas glass and metal splinter, and the heat of the blast gusts past them. They hold their position for a split second longer, then jump to their feet and sprint to Steve, careful not to slip as water splashes across the floor amongst shards of glass and debris.

The captain is face down and there's blood. Natasha stops breathing, tries to prepare her mind for the worst.

_I killed him,_ she thinks as Clint bends down to inspect their fallen friend. _I couldn't save him, and then I killed him._

The archer turns Steve over and removes the gag, checks for breath. Natasha kneels down beside them, sees that the blood is coming from a dozen or so gashes scattered across Steve's chest, limbs and face.

Then Steve is choking and sputtering, and Natasha feels dizzy with relief. She helps lever the captain to a sitting position while Clint slaps Steve's back.

"We got you – you okay?" Clint asks, eyeing the other man with concern.

Steve takes a few ragged breaths but nods. He wipes at his face where water and blood are mixing and making tracks down his face.

"That was close," he says weakly and almost smiles at Natasha.

She swallows and doesn't reply. _Too close._


	2. Chapter 2

**A/n:** Your heart = ant. This fic = boot.

* * *

Back at the Tower several hours later, Steve heads straight to bed, exhausted by the night's ordeal. He and the others were patched up by some of the agents Hill brought for back-up, while Bruce was taken to SHIELD's medical facility when they couldn't revive him after the gas attack. Tony was taken too so they could flush his system.

Natasha curls up on the couch with a mug of tea and holds it close, savouring the warmth that spreads through her fingers. She can't seem to stop thinking about the hell they endured today and it scares her how frightened she felt at the prospect of losing them – any of them.

Clint joins her a short time later after he's had a shower. He settles wordlessly beside her and she leans into him, setting her mug down on the coffee table. He slides his arm around her, comforting and safe. Reminding her that the world is right again and it's okay to need people sometimes. Natasha shuts her eyes and breathes him in – fresh, clean, familiar.

He is her anchor in this world. Once upon a time she needed no one and no one needed her. She was ice cold, ruthless, with a library of skills that no one else in the world could likely compete with, and she relished it. She didn't need comfort or trust, didn't need emotion. She never needed – never even _wanted_ – a team or a partner.

Somehow Clint changed that and ever since then, she has thought of her life in parts and chapters. There is the part Before Clint and the part After Clint. It is in the second part that she learned what it means to be human, to rely on others, and to allow room for emotion. To _care_.

She doesn't regret the change and the growth, but she regrets the vulnerability that sometimes goes along with it. She _feels_ so much more, and it's days like these that cause her to long for the simplicity that came with the lack of emotions. That being said, she would never, ever change her past if it mean living without Clint.

In recent months, Natasha has added a new chapter to her life, too: After the Avengers. God help her, they've wormed their way into her soul too. The famous Black Widow – who'd have ever thought she'd find herself needing a team and a partner after all.

Clint gently strokes her hair and she can hear it begin to rain outside. She smiles softly, listening to his heart beat beneath her cheek.

* * *

After a week and a half with no major incidents, Natasha knew it was too good to last. Though Vosler was very much locked away deep in some prison, there was never a shortage of bad guys.

Tony has since recovered from the Vosler incident with no ill effects, and the scars from the glass tank were gone from Cap within days. Bruce, meanwhile, is still being taken care of at SHIELD, having not yet woken from the gas. Apparently the mixture had been somehow targeted to Banner's DNA, and though Natasha doesn't quite understand the science behind how it works, it means the recovery time for Bruce is triple what it should have been.

With Thor still gone to Asgard, it's four of the six Avengers who are called by Fury with a new mission. The director explains that some mercenary has amassed a small army with impressive weaponry and is planning to take over the New York Stock Exchange.

"They've set up camp in an abandoned military compound and there are a colossal amount of men down there. The army is scrambling to shut them down but we're closer," says Fury. "I need you four to contain the situation, or at the very least, stall it until we can join up with the army and overwhelm their numbers. We shouldn't need too long."

"We are on it, boss man," Tony nods at the screen. Fury doesn't reply further aside from ending the call.

"Welp," Clint slaps his knees and jumps off the kitchen stool. "Let's suit up."

* * *

Natasha is seated in the quinjet, reading over the briefing package while the other three stand above her, readying suits and weapons for battle.

"You grabbed those nifty ones that separate in mid-air, right?" says Tony, glancing at the archer.

"I never leave home with 'em," Clint smiles and reaches back to pat his quiver. "Should help my count surpass yours. As usual."

Tony scoffs. "As usual? I had ten on you in the Mangadorian incident."

"Eight, don't exaggerate," Steve chimes in with a smirk.

"I was rounding up," said Tony. He slides on his helmet. "My point is I got more of 'em then _you_ did." He jabs his armoured finger at Clint, who laughs.

"Only because I had to go down into the bunker to _rescue_ people. Trust me, my count would've been a _lot_ higher."

"Yeah, well, you always take all the high ones, it's not fair," Tony says petulantly. "As the resident Roaming Eye in the Sky, I think it's _my_ job to get anything above a certain height."

"Hey, I thought _I_ was the Eye in the Sky!"

Steve chuckles and shakes his head as the other two continue to banter good-naturedly about taking down enemies in the heat of battle. He settles down beside Natasha a moment later and together they go over a game plan.

Before too long, the quinjet drops them off, and the four of them take off, straight into the heart of the compound.

* * *

They've only been fighting for about twenty-five minutes, but the three of them are pretty banged up already. Worse, there is no end in sight to the enemy barrage. There are simply too many men in this merc's army for the three of them to take down – well, four including Stark, who is a couple of blocks away, trying to herd the enemies away from the general population. The situation is definitely _stall_ instead of _win_.

The abandoned military base is good for the team since there are no civilians around, but bad because the buildings offer far too much cover for their enemies. Smoke curls in the air around them and Natasha wants to know where the hell their reinforcements are.

"We are not winning this!" Clint calls over his shoulder, firing off another arrow. It sails high over the battleground and splits apart during its descent to fell four oncoming enemies. He takes a step backwards, already grabbing another arrow.

Natasha ducks a projectile and wipes the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. "No argument here!"

"Did he recruit a small country?"

"Feeling more like a _large_ country at this point."

"And where the _hell_ is our back-up?" Clint shoots two arrows at once then spares a glance to Steve, who is slamming his shield left and right, collapsing enemy after enemy. "There's too many of them."

"Wondering the same thing," Natasha grumbles.

_"Reinforcements are still six minutes out,"_ Tony informs them over their comms. _"We are getting hammered. And not the way I normally like to get hammered."_

"Stark," the captain says and grunts as an advancing man clubs him in the back. "We're falling back to you. Copy?"

_"Roger Rogers,"_ Stark's voice returns.

Before they make their next move, an explosion knocks Steve, Natasha and Clint off their feet. The heat of it blows past, too close. Ears ringing, Natasha pops to her feet as fast as she can. There is something on her neck so she reaches up and finds a piece of shrapnel lodged in her skin above her shoulder. It isn't large, perhaps the size of mangled coin, and despite it being stuck in, it isn't terribly deep. Gritting her teeth, she pulls it out and presses her hand tight to the wound.

"You okay?" Clint asks worriedly. There's a trail of blood sliding down his cheek to his jaw from a gash above his eye. He raises his bow and shoots off an arrow without watching where it lands (square in the eye of an approaching hostile).

She doesn't have time to answer him. There is an onslaught of bullets from above, and the pair hastily take cover. Natasha glances above the pile of debris before her, but can't see when more bullets pepper her hiding place and she has to duck down again.

She waits for the pause that means the men are reloading, then stands and begins firing her own guns. Ten paces or so ahead, Clint is firing arrows almost as fast as she shoots her gun. There are men on the balconies of the nearby building with machine guns that she aims for first, while Clint's arrows find their targets on a building much farther away, containing snipers. They have to take cover a second time, but when they pop up a few moments later and fell their enemies, the rain of bullets stop.

"We _have_ to get out of here," Natasha pants.

"Couldn't agree more," Clint replies.

_"SHIELD and company are almost here,"_ Tony's voice crackles is their ears. _"Time to go, kids!"_

Another explosion rips through a building down the street, farther away than the last one but still far too close for comfort. Natasha is eager to get the hell out of here. She looks for Steve who is fighting to clear a path for them to retreat, then she focus her attention ahead of her as perhaps a dozen men emerge from the smoke at the end of the street. She curses under her breath and hears Steve call from behind for her and Clint to run, _now_.

At the same moment, Clint aims his bow down the street and then turns his head to face her.

"Go, Nat!" he shouts. "I'm right behind – "

_CRACK._

She is staring right at him when it happens.

A red and black hole appears in his forehead, his face loses expression, his hands go slack on his bow and his body crumples to the ground.

She registers the sight, sees him fall. A sound begins to rip out of her and it's desperate, sharp, and raw. Everything spins out of her control and she can't focus, can't breathe. Her mind and heart are shattering and pouring out and somewhere she's scrambling for control of herself, swears she can see him tumbling to the ground over and over again. It's not in slow motion like the movies, but fast forward, on repeat.

Tunnel vision. No breathe in her chest. Sound is warped, muted background noise. His body: bloody and broken, angled all wrong in the dirt. Eyes wide open, vacant.

And she can't move.

She can't look away from his body, can't get to it, can't save him, can't _move_.

Then a bullet whizzes past, so close it cuts her cheek, another slices across her arm. The battle is still raging. She falls to her knees and Steve is suddenly there, protecting her with his body and his shield. It's been mere seconds since Clint, since he –

It feels like eternity.

Steve is talking but she can't hear him. She's gasping for air, desperately dragging everything back inside, furiously trying to lock it away, to regain some form of focus, to grasp some thread of control, and get through this moment. Her hands are shaking so bad she can't lift her gun and she looks up at Steve's face, her mouth open, tears in her eyes. She's ragged, disintegrating, dust.

His features are dirty and grim, and she can tell he's barely holding it together, tattered and torn too. But he has to, _has to_ hold it together. He has to get them out of here.

"Come on," he urges, fighting to keep his voice even and moves in closer, the bullets pinging off his shield. "Natasha, come _on_."

He doesn't want to manhandle her, but he might not have a choice. He grasps her upper arm tight and she chokes a little and swallows thickly.

_There's nothing we can do,_ his eyes say, full of cutting sadness that isn't helping her wrestle her own emotions.

She can't reply– it feels like her voice has disappeared, that she is hollow and bursting at the same time – but she manages to reach deep into the part of her that she hasn't touched since the Red Room. Her emotions swirl and circle like water going down the drain. As Steve helps her to her feet, she is ice-cold and numb, nauseous but otherwise unfeeling. She is contained, impenetrable, stone.

She becomes a machine, becomes something else, some_one_ else. She stumbles but then catches herself and strides forward hard and quick, breaking into a run, and then Steve is hurrying to catch up with her instead.

There are no thoughts in her mind, she isn't properly aware of anything other than the need to survive this situation. To go, get out, get away. _Think later._ Her heart and her body aren't even attached – her heart isn't attached to anything right now.

An enemy crosses her path and it's pure instinct and muscle memory that take over without pause, and in a flash, he's lying there with a snapped neck. She does the same thing to the next two.

Then they reach Stark, whose suit looks worse for the wear, dinged and scraped all to hell. The three of them duck around the side of building as the whine of a dozen helicopters near. The sound of extraction, of rescue and safety.

_Too late,_ she thinks. _Far too late._

"Where's Barton?" Tony asks, flipping up his faceplate and panting for breath.

Steve explains, halting and pained. "He's…gone. Tony, he…he's dead. Shot."

Natasha can't hear them over the roaring in her ears. She refuses to look at Tony, but now it's too quiet between the three of them and she can sense he is holding back just as Steve is. They've all seen each other broken before in other situations, but this is different. This is uncharted territory.

But this is not the time to let go, to _feel_, and they all know it.

Natasha senses their eyes on her. She drops her gaze to block them from her peripheral vision but lifts her chin a touch to indicate that she is _fine_ – broken pieces cobbled together and _barely_ holding on, but holding all the same.

Yeah, she can tell they're _fine_ too.

* * *

During the debriefing at SHIELD's base, Natasha is even quieter than usual. She says what is absolutely required, but when they're finally allowed to leave, she barely remembers the meeting at all. SHIELD and the army have the mercenary situation under control by this time apparently, and Fury assures them they will retrieve Barton if they can (_if his body is still there and intact_ hangs in the air unspoken).

On the way back to the tower, she lets Tony drive and she closes her eyes in the back seat so they won't try to talk to her.

* * *

Back at the tower, everything feels wrong, somehow. It's all exactly how they left it, not a millimetre out of place, yet she can't help feeling on edge as though someone uninvited has come in and messed things up. She knows it's just the grief spiking, just her mind trying to reconcile the fact that Clint is gone and never coming home. Knowing doesn't help, though, doesn't soothe.

Tony heads down to his lab without a word and Steve hovers awkwardly for a few moments in the kitchen, trying to decide what he should do with himself. Natasha can't meet his eyes and doesn't want him to try and comfort her. She retreats to her room at once and shuts the door. Locks it for good measure in case Steve gathers the words he wants and comes to attempt to chat.

In her room, the silence is deafening. It's not that when Clint was here (_was _– the past tense slices like a knife in her gut) he was particularly animated or loud or anything, it's just that he was _here_. In his room, in the common room, down in the lab, up on the roof, on a mission. Somewhere, anywhere. Not gone. Never _gone_ in the most final sense of the word.

Numbly, Natasha heads over to the chair beside the dresser where one of Clint's shirts is draped. He left it there this morning after he had a shower, she recalls. She stares at it but can't bring her fingers to touch it, to move it. Maybe if she leaves it like that, he will come back for it.

She figures she's allowed to be irrational at this point.

* * *

Natasha normally refused to be the type who wallowed in grief and pain. Clint wouldn't want her to wallow, she thinks.

She's been a spy long enough and been fighting long enough that this is certainly not the first time she's lost someone. It's not even the first time she's lost someone close to her heart, although "close" is probably a relative term. No one gets close to her heart – no one, that is, before Clint. No one before this team.

Natasha also has been an agent long enough to know there was nothing she could have done to save him. He'd understand that. She was there, as surrounded by enemies as he was, taking out as many of them as she could as fast as she was capable. She won't dwell on the _if only I had_-type thoughts. They won't help; they will only make it worse. So she won't, she _won't…_

Though Clint's and her abilities in the field were so superior that sometimes even she forgets that they are human, they _are_ merely just human. Humans can't stop a bullet with their flesh, no matter how fast or strong or skilled they might be. Logically, she understands all this. Coldly, she can force her feelings into a box inside and analyze the situation as clinically as if it were two strangers in a report she was reading over.

Even with all her training however, this…the fact that it is _Clint_, she cannot escape, and she can only contain those emotions for so long before they tear out of that box and paralyze her with doubt and grief and guilt. They didn't retreat from those streets soon enough, she didn't shoot down enough enemies, she didn't kill the one that mattered, she didn't save Clint. He saved her so many times, he saved her when it mattered most all those years ago and he gave her a new life. This is more red in her ledger.

But there's no wiping this out.

Part of her is fighting for the chance to break down, to let it out, but she isn't going to give it one. She can handle herself, handle this. She's determined to carry on, to shut out any pain. She refuses to cry; she hasn't cried in _years_, for anything.

_You won't even cry for me?_ She imagines Clint sitting beside her, an eyebrow raised, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

_No_, she replies silently. _Because if I let one tear out, I won't be able to stop. And it'll be all your fault._

The rest of her is determined to do her job and be there for the rest of the team. She doesn't have time to waste on being sad because no good will come of it. She is a professional at hiding emotion, at compartmentalizing. She can get on with her day and do her job. This is what she tells herself.

So after just a few days of locking herself in her room and coming out for meals when she knows the others aren't around, she calls SHIELD and demands a mission from Fury. He asks her to come in for a chat first.

They haven't even had a funeral yet.

* * *

"It's only been four days."

"I'm fine, sir." She fixes the Director with a hard stare.

"There's no shame in admitting you need some time, Agent," says Fury. "I'm giving you time. As much time as you need. He was important to… he was important."

"All due respect sir, I don't need any time," Natasha replies, her voice flat, controlled. "I need a job. I need a mission."

"It would temporary – up to you when you come back. You can take some _time_."

"I don't need to be benched."

Fury opens his mouth to try again, but Natasha cuts him off sharply.

"Or baby-sat or coddled or treated like glass. Put me in the field. I'm fine." For good measure, she adds, "I've handled worse."

Fury lifts his chin, his good eye studying her searchingly, assessing and calculating. She's not quite sure he believes her until he glances down and hands her the manila file folder in his hand.

"You and Westen ship out tonight," he finally says.

She accepts the packet. "Thank you, sir."

* * *

It's a milk run, a routine mission, a step above simple recon. Natasha is a bit annoyed that Fury doesn't trust her with more, but supposes she can understand why. This is a test, to see if she was feeding him bullshit or if she really is alright enough to carry out missions so soon after her partner's death.

Westen is shooting her sideways glances, a little unsure, a little questioning and a little sympathetic. She wants to snap at him but holds her tongue. He has a right to be concerned, but she's going to show him she's as stable as she said she was. She continues loading her guns and does her best to ignore him until she's ready to go.

"You good?" he asks, blue-grey eyes tracking over her profile. It sounds like he's referring to the weapons she's strapping on to herself, but she knows he's not.

"Fine," she replies, keeping her tone just light enough that he'll believe her. "You?"

Westen gives her slight nod and they head out without another word.

* * *

Natasha and Westen have no problem breaching the building and extracting the files from the server, but it is when they are attempting to make their escape that they encounter trouble. Security was unexpectedly alerted to their presence and men with guns are flooding the area. They open fire when they catch sight of the two spies exiting the building, and Westen swears loudly as they dive for cover.

Natasha is briefly pinned down, but after firing some shots of her own, she manages to position herself behind a new-looking blue car. She pops up to fire back at the men, seeking a way to escape the barrage and spots Westen crouched behind another vehicle a dozen feet away doing the same thing.

There is a moment when he stands, extends his arm out to his side and then turns his brown-haired head to look behind him while he shoots forwards. It's only an instant, but the action is enough to remind her forcibly of her old partner, hitting her sideways with its familiarity.

And for one tiny moment, it is as though everything is back to normal. She is shooting and Clint is at her side and they are one, in sync, _partners_…

_She is staring right at him when it happens. _

_A red and black hole appears in his forehead, his face loses expression, his hands go slack on his bow and his body crumples to the ground._

Natasha falters, misses a shot. Misses another. Another.

_His face loses expression…_

Her heart is pounding, and beads of sweat are forming on her forehead. Her breaths come quicker.

_He looks up at her, eyes full of pain. "Do you know what it's like to be unmade?"_

"Romanoff!"

Her hands are shaking, she can't shoot, why can't she shoot? Men are advancing. She feels paralyzed.

_His hands go slack on his bow…_

"Agent Romanoff!" Westen is screaming and dodging gunfire to make it to her side. She barely registers the sight, manages to buckle her knees so she lands on the ground behind the vehicle and doesn't get herself shot.

_…and his body crumples to the ground._

"Romanoff? _Nat? Natasha!_"

Why isn't there any oxygen? Why is the world swimming before her eyes? Tipping sideways? What is that roaring sound?

_Clint is laying on the bed beside her on his side, eyes tracing every curve and line of her face. "God," he murmurs. "I could get used to this."_

She squeezes her eyes tight, her hands won't stop vibrating and her breath is coming in short, shallow gasps. _What is happening…?_

"Natasha!"

_"Tasha…" Clint reaches for her._

Suddenly Westen's hands are tight on her upper arms and he is shaking her. Her eyes snap open, his face is right up close to hers and he's yelling. Bullets are riddling holes in the metal above their heads, somewhere a great explosion rocks the building beyond. She tries desperately to reel herself in, feels her face is wet but can't figure out why because it isn't raining and _what the hell is going on?_

"Damn it, Natasha," Westen hollers. "_Run!_"

* * *

Natasha clutches the blanket tighter around herself, but she can't seem to stop shivering. The nurse had said something about _shock_ and _anxiety attack_. Fury came to check on her, and then he and Westen had headed out of the room for a quick word.

Out the door in the bright white hallway, she can see them talking in low voices she can't make out from here. They keep glancing back at her and she feels sick. Her breakdown in the field nearly cost Westen his life, nearly killed them both. She can't believe she was that weak, that stupid. She jeopardized everything, and it wasn't even supposed to be a difficult mission.

Fury comes back and approaches her bed a few minutes later, his face set and stern, yet sympathetic. "Agent Romanoff – "

"Before you say anything," Natasha stops him, sitting up. She feels dizzy. "I know."

Fury straightens a bit and waits to hear what she has to say.

"What happened today was unacceptable, and you have every right to pull me off duty. I would like, sir, to pull _myself_ off the roster. I am more… compromised than I realized and I put my partner in unnecessary danger today. It was incredibly foolish and I cannot apologize enough."

She chances a glance at her boss under her long eyelashes, but his expression is unreadable. "So you can save your _I told you so_ speech for another day. You can have someone escort me home and I will stay there until I am actually fit for duty."

Fury drops his gaze with a soft sigh. There is nothing left for him to say, except, "Whenever you're ready, Agent Romanoff. I mean that."

* * *

It's her luck, she supposes, or lack thereof (or maybe he asked to do it), but Westen is the one to drive her to Stark Tower.

"Michael, I…"

"Don't," he says right away, not unkindly. They've been driving in silence ever since they left the base.

She turns his way, unsure. His features aren't tight with anger, but rather they are lined with empathy.

"You weren't ready."

Her lip trembles and she bites it quick, swallowing the emotion rising in her throat. _Damn emotion, _she thinks. _Damn weakness._

"No," she eventually admits.

* * *

Back at the tower, like the day it happened, she finds herself standing in the common area, searching for what's wrong, what's out of place. And nothing is. Nothing except for the fact that Clint is still not _here_; he's still gone.

Natasha enters his room, steeling herself as she opens the door, and once again that irrational hope that he'll be sitting there, has been all along, seizes her. That somehow this has been a terrible, _terrible_ dream and he'll get up from his bed or his desk and embrace her and laugh and make her feel better.

But the room is untouched and empty. Painfully, horribly _empty_.

Natasha closes the door behind her and then goes to his closet. Her fingers dance along his clothes and she selects a shirt at random. She takes off the one she's wearing and replaces it with this one of his, navy blue and loose fitting cotton. She hugs it close to her body for a moment before crossing the room to his unmade bed and climbs in.

She can smell the ghost of him everywhere – in the clothes, the sheets, the cologne bottle left sitting open on his bathroom counter.

She's lost people (too many) over the years, but this is so very different. Different and horrible and complicated and she can never put it into words. Doesn't try to. Just buries her face in his pillow and finally allows herself to let go.

If the others hear her, they don't disturb her.

* * *

The next morning, she stays in his room, in his bed. She's changed her mind on wallowing, on allowing herself to grieve and hurt. She decides she deserves it, decides it's necessary. Decides she doesn't know what to do next and this is as good as anything.

It's been six days.

* * *

There's a tentative knock on the door, though she doesn't get up to answer it.

"Natasha?" It's Steve, and he tries her name a second time when he gets no reply. He cracks open the door.

"Are you – ?" Stops himself before finishing with _okay_, and even if she can't summon the strength to verbalize it, she silently thanks him for it.

"You should eat," he says instead, shoving his hand into the pocket of his brown trousers. "Have you eaten?"

She manages to shake her head. She'd forgotten about food. Doesn't remember the last time she ate. Doesn't care.

He nods, guessing as much. "Do you want anything in particular?" He pauses, and when she doesn't answer again, he adds, "I'll bring you something."

About twenty minutes later, he's back with a plate of bacon and eggs which he sets on Clint's nightstand. He encourages her to eat and then leaves her be. He exits the room slowly, glancing around, and she can see the way his shoulders are tense, hears him exhale slow and sad. He closes the door softly behind him.

She watches the steam rising off the food until it stops.

* * *

Eventually, Natasha manages to actually eat something, and then transfers herself back to her own room. She takes his shirt with her, though now it smells like her instead of him and that fact causes tears to prick her eyes. She fiercely blinks them away.

The lack of his presence in the tower is sharp and constant and she cannot avoid it, no matter where she goes within it. Clint's absence is a giant void, a black hole, sucking the life out of her, every moment that he's not there.

She's a good liar, good at faking things, at manipulation. She's persuasive and skilled at convincing herself to accomplish tasks if they are unpleasant. She's good at _pretending_. It's part of her job, her life. But this… this is one thing where she cannot pretend, no matter how hard she might try…and oh _God_, is she trying.

The reality is that he is not simply away on a mission. He is not down the street at the grocery store or out picking up a pizza. He's not getting debriefed by Coulson, asleep down the hall, or practicing his archery somewhere. He is not reading a book in the living room or on the roof with his legs hanging over the edge watching the city. He is not in her room waiting for her.

He is dead. She can't stop seeing it before her eyes.

* * *

She has left her room a few times by this point, but the others still look surprised to see her whenever she emerges. The conversation is small talk, awkward and stilted, if there is any. When Bruce returns home to the tower, he doesn't know how to act around Natasha any better than Steve or Tony do.

She's glad the good doctor is back at the tower with them, glad he's okay and tells him as much when she sees him.

"Thanks," he replies, a warm smile on his lips. "It's nice to be back. Spending three weeks unconscious isn't the most, um, fun I've ever had." He rubs the back of his neck.

"You're clearly doing it wrong," Tony jokes.

"You _would_ know, wouldn't you?" Steve smirks and opens the fridge to grab himself a beer.

And for a split second, it's almost normal. It's almost old times. But the problem is that _almost_ isn't good enough. There will always be one person missing.

Her small smile falters and Bruce's eyes find hers and they are so _sad_.She can feel that wound inside her ripping wide open again and she _cannot stop bleeding_.

"Well," she says, quiet and fragile, though she attempts not to be. "Glad you're home. I have to…"

She doesn't bother to finish her sentence and heads straight back to her room.

* * *

The funeral is pretty much exactly what she had expected, based on the other SHIELD funerals she's attended in the past. It's formal, generic, and impersonal. She knows Clint would've hated it, but imagines he would've hated the opposite, with flowers and organs and weeping friends, even more.

Fury gives a short speech about Hawkeye's accomplishments, how he was such an asset to the agency, and a good man. That he will be missed.

The gathered agents are solemn and mostly dry-eyed, spread out on chairs behind Coulson and Hill in the front row, next to Bruce, Steve and Tony. They're not crying either, though she suspects they probably have at some point in the privacy of their rooms back at the tower. She wishes Thor were here.

Afterwards, everyone quietly disperses. Tony catches her eye and she feels overwhelmed by the emotion in his eyes and has to look away, busying herself with helping to put away chairs. Some of her colleagues and fellow agents come and offer their condolences, which she gratefully accepts, even if they sound flat and formal to her ears. She'd be no better if roles were reversed, she knows.

Hill is last, as the team leaves the conference room, following the last of the other agents.

"Agent…" she begins, stops, and softens. "Natasha. I'm _so_ sorry."

Hill is the type who is as hard and cold as Natasha most of the time, so to see her with shining eyes, expressing her grief, is almost too much. It hits Natasha again that this is happening, that it's real, and not a nightmare she's still trying to wake up from.

She can't trust her voice, so Natasha merely nods, but it's enough.

Hill visibly pulls herself back, becoming stony and professional again, and leaves the room.

As Natasha watches Hill go, she thinks about how she divides her life in chapters and pieces. The part Before Clint, the part After Clint, and the part After the Avengers. Her stomach turns over and she feels emotion clog her throat, threaten to spill over, because she knows she has to add a new chapter title: the part After Clint Died.

* * *

**A/n:** Did anyone catch the mini-crossover in this chapter? Thanks for reading, feedback is love!


	3. Chapter 3

**A/n:** And here's the conclusion... Warning, lots of feels ahead. ;) Thank you for reading, and especially for commenting! Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Natasha is still awake but refuses to look at the clock. She can't fall asleep, can't shut off her mind.

"You got in," she whispers to the dark. "You got so _far_ in. Damn you, Clint."

She curses him some more and hits the bed with her tightly balled up fist.

She can still see him falling – sees the hole in his forehead, the question in his eyes, the way his body simply tumbles to the ground like a marionette with cut strings.

Natasha presses the heels of her hands to her eyelids in an attempt to stamp out the image but it won't go away. She knows it never will.

* * *

After a number of hours of restless tossing and turning, Natasha finally gives up on finding sleep tonight. She throws on some clothes and heads out of her room.

The Tower is dark and silent, but not eerily so, not like it is during the day where Clint is painfully absent. There's been many nights in the past where she roamed the Tower in the middle of the night when she couldn't sleep and felt comforted by the stillness; she's always liked the dark.

She drifts aimlessly at first, then heads to the stairwell. The Tower has a _lot_ of floors, and she doesn't stop at all of them, rather chooses one at random, wanders around, and then moves on to another. On the level containing one of Tony's labs, she's not surprised to see the light on down the hall. She wonders if he's fallen asleep there again.

Natasha stops when she reaches the door, peering in from the shadows. Tony's music is off, and he's seated in a chair by one of his work benches, head in his hands, fingers laced through messy hair. She sees his shoulders shake and realizes he's not sleeping. She hesitates, feeling suddenly as though she's intruding on his grief and debates whether or not she should go in and say something to him.

Bruce comes into view then, carrying a steaming mug, and settles wordlessly on the chair next to Tony. He sets the mug down and picks up some tools, clearly continuing whatever he'd been tinkering with. Natasha watches them for a few moments, and then Tony lifts his head, eyes red and wet. He glances briefly at Bruce, then proceeds to copy his friend and gets back to whatever he'd been working on.

Natasha backs away and rushes for the stairs.

Once in the stairwell, she takes off from the landing and runs up. There's something reassuring in the repetitive pounding of her feet against the metal and concrete. Natasha pushes herself to run hard, to fight through every physical sensation wanting her to slow down, because it gives her something to concentrate on (she can't think of the way Tony looked just now; she _can't_ or she'll break). It gives her something to control in a time when she feels like she has so little of it.

Even when her lungs are burning and there's a sharp stabbing in her side, she pushes harder, runs faster, and soon she's back to the level with her room on it. When she opens the door to that level, the area has a soft blue glow to it, indicating dawn is almost here. She blinks back the sting in her eyes and goes to the kitchen to make herself some breakfast.

* * *

She considers disappearing, more than once. Just leaving. Packing in the middle of the night and never coming back. She wants to stop hurting, wants to leave everything in this tower behind because she sees Clint everywhere and she cannot stop _hurting_ and she's had enough pain in her life, she doesn't need – cannot handle_ this._

_When did she become so weak?_

She imagines Clint leaning against the dresser, with that sexy smirk. He's in a red t-shirt this time.

_Look at you,_ he'd say. _Running away._ Whistles low. _Kinda cowardly, don't you think? That's not you._

_Yeah, well_, she answers back in her head, bitter and sad. _You died. What the hell do you expect me to do?_

The Clint in her imagination doesn't have a reply.

* * *

One night, she _does_ pack instead of merely imagining she will. She's decided she's hit her limit, decided she can't stand it anymore. Natasha throws off the covers, flips on the light and retrieves a backpack from her closet. She starts throwing essentials into it.

She's barely interacted with Steve, Bruce and Tony since _it_ happened, barely even come out of her room, but she can't feel guilty about it. They're grieving in their way; she's grieving in hers. And right now, that means getting the hell out of here and never looking back. Disappearing. Maybe forever.

Leaving and disappearing are other things she's good at.

Natasha knows Steve went to bed at least an hour ago, Bruce is two floors down in the library and she's certain Tony is in his lab with the music cranked to 100. He surprises her, though (normally an impossible thing to do), by opening the door to her room at two or three in the morning while she's busy stuffing her toiletries into the small backpack.

"You running?" the billionaire asks bluntly.

She swallows hard and refuses to meet his gaze, dropping the bag on her bed for a moment. Her voice sounds coarse and rusty when she quietly replies, "I can't stay."

"Sure," Tony crosses his arms over his chest. "I get it. You used to be all epic – the lone-wolf spy type – and then you had Clint. So you didn't have to be all lone-wolf anymore."

She stiffens but lets him continue.

"Look, you know I don't do – I'm not the…emotional, mushy type. Obviously. But I just need to…" Tony rubs the back of his neck, struggling to find the words he wants. She can't help wondering how long he's grappled with himself over whether or not to talk to her like this. Or when the last time he really slept was, judging by the dark circles under his eyes. She remembers the other night with Bruce in the lab, the night after the funeral.

"The thing is… you're part of us now. The six of us are this bizarre dysfunctional family and we're not…" Tony trails off for a moment and she cautiously raises her eyes to meet his uncomfortable ones. She pretends not to notice that he should have said _five of us_.

"Going all lone-wolf isn't an option for us anymore," he finishes, shoulders slumping a little.

Natasha realizes he's including himself in this statement with a pang in her gut. He was someone used to being on his own too once, after all. Maybe not to the same degree, but someone who relied on himself and his skills to get him through, and now he has these people, this team. That like it or not, he relies on them as much as they rely on him and he can't break that just because something like this happens. Probably couldn't even if he _wanted_ to, at this point.

She understands without him having to voice any of it. Even so, she wishes she could explain that staying here is like having a fresh wound that can't scab over – every day, it's ripped wide open and she can't see a day when she won't stop bleeding.

"You need us. Even if you don't think you do." He levels his pained gaze at her. "And we need you too."

She swallows with difficulty around the unexpected lump of emotion in her throat. She's seen Tony hurting – seen all of them hurting, in fact – in one way or another. But this is different (_God,_ _everything is different now_) and it's a testament to the mark Clint left on each one of them, on them both, because _Tony_ of all people is standing in her doorway, baring a part of his heart in order to convince her to stay.

"Bruce didn't even know," he says, trying to fill the growing silence. "Somebody had to tell him when he woke up. _I_ had to tell him when he woke up."

Natasha stops. She hadn't even thought of how poor Bruce found out. She feels a stab of guilt in her chest.

"And Thor," Tony adds, still in that uncharacteristically soft, miserable tone. "Whenever he gets back."

Silence stretches for several uncomfortable seconds again as Natasha's mind brings forth images of Thor and Bruce learning that their close friend and teammate died while they were gone and unconscious, respectively.

"I just… It's not just you," Tony says, raking his fingers through his hair. "That's what I'm trying to say."

"I know." Her voice is barely a whisper, feeling like the first thing she has managed to say out loud in days. "I'm sorry."

He waves his hand at her dismissively. "No, look, you guys… you were… well." He shrugs. There isn't a word for what they were. "_We_ know. We don't blame you. So don't – it's not your fault. It's just… hard."

She clears her throat and has to work to keep her voice steady as she replies, "Thanks."

Tony nods once in acknowledgement and then suddenly doesn't seem to know what to do with himself. He backs out of the room, gesturing down the hall in an _I'm going to go_ sort of motion, then disappears past the doorway.

Natasha regards the bag on her bed. She could still leave. No one could stop her. He didn't even really try to talk her out of it that much. His words seem to hang in the air before her, though, and she would have to walk through them to get to the hallway. She curls her fingers around the bag's handle and then sets it by the door.

It's as if it's a sign to herself that she doesn't need anyone, not really, and she can leave at any time. She still could disappear, at any moment. She tells herself that she'll maybe stick it out for a few more days, but then she'll leave, no matter what Tony said. They _can't_ stop her (in fact, she'd like to see them try).

Natasha changes into a new shirt of Clint's and climbs into her bed.

She imagines Clint coming through the door with a sarcastic comment about Tony being girly and emotional. She imagines him settling on the edge of the bed beside her, imagines slugging him on the arm and telling him to be nicer. She imagines the glint in his eye and the way his hair is a little bit mussed and the way he looks at her, like no one else ever does, ever will.

Natasha shuts her eyes and imagines he is there, watching her sleep, promising her that it will be all right.

* * *

Each night, Natasha is prepared to leave. She gives the bag by the door a look and promises she will leave.

Each night, she finds an excuse to put it off, just for a few more hours. To stay for just a little bit longer. But then she will disappear and escape, and the others will simply have to do without her and that's that.

It's a promise. She won't – _cannot_ stay here forever.

* * *

She's not sure where the others have gone this afternoon, but Natasha is the only one home when Coulson arrives with a large box.

"I'm sorry it took so long, Agent Romanoff," his tone is formal but there's no denying the undertone of grief. He holds out the box, his features tightening. "His personal effects."

She nods curtly, taking the box. She's proud of herself: her hands shake only a little and she's able to keep herself steady.

Coulson's eyes are shining. "He was a good man. Good agent and friend."

Natasha doesn't trust her voice so she simply nods again, and then watches Coulson leave.

* * *

At first, she puts the box on Clint's bed and leaves it there. She can't bring herself to open it. But then she paces the empty tower and can't stop thinking about what might be in it, and decides that it can't hurt worse than it does right now. Natasha goes back to his room and pulls the top open.

The breath is knocked from her for a good moment. It's all so _final_. This is what happens in movies, in cop and army movies. The family and friends get the box of stuff and it's just _over._

She touches the quiver of arrows, the back-up one he kept in his SHIELD locker, one of his old favorites. There's a set of clothes, miscellaneous knickknacks. A pair of shoes. A few pictures: one depicting Tony, Clint and Thor grinning with huge steins of beer; another with Bruce and Tony, the pair of them covered in paint from a paintball match the team had had.

A third is a candid from one of the many movie nights they'd had (she is stuffing her face with popcorn in the corner, Tony is grinning at the camera, Clint is making a silly face behind Thor's head, who is pointing at whatever was on the TV, Steve is beaming like an idiot, eyes shut when the flash went off; Bruce must've been taking the picture) and a fourth shows Clint teaching Bruce how to shoot a bow and arrow.

Two more towards the bottom – one with Darcy, one with Phil. She didn't realize Clint had kept so many pictures in his work locker.

She smiles at the array of photos, at how Clint always pretended he wasn't sentimental, and then discovers the last picture in the box: one of her and Clint. It's one of those cheesy "selfies" everybody and their dog have taken of themselves at one time or another, but it charms her nonetheless. Their faces are pressed close together, cheek to cheek, and he is grinning while she has her usual soft, demure smile on. She doesn't remember when it was taken, though it is clear they were outside, with sand and sun in the background.

The picture becomes blurry as her eyes fill with tears and she tucks the photos back into the box.

She can't stop the train of grief threatening to engulf her in that moment and wraps her arms tight around chest. Suddenly Natasha needs to be anywhere but in his room, so she bolts. She makes it to the stairwell before has to stop, struggling to breathe. She leans against the wall and slides down until she is sitting and her knees are at her chin.

The gleaming blonde head of Thor pokes through one of the doorways she just exited and he spots her at once, crumpled on a landing one flight down.

She didn't even know he was back.

He hurries down the steps to her without hesitation.

"Lady Natasha…" Thor crouches down beside her in the stairwell and wraps his muscular arms around her. He's dressed in civilian clothes: jeans and a green, long-sleeved shirt. "I'm sorry I could not be here sooner."

She curls into his chest and _damn it_, she's _crying_.

He holds her for a long time while her sobs subside.

"He was the greatest of warriors," Thor's voice is a low, comforting rumble. "I will miss him greatly. As we all shall."

Briefly she wonders who had to tell him what happened, but then realizes it doesn't matter. She doesn't know what to say, and he simply keeps his arms around her in comfort, not needing her to say anything at all.

The act reminds her of Clint.

* * *

As the days roll past, she finds it difficult to make it through every one. It feels as though a piece of her soul has been ripped out. Though, truth be told, she's had parts of her soul removed before.

Lying in Clint's bed watching the sun crawl across the far wall, she thinks that his death also represented the killing of hope for her, in some way. When they used to go on missions years before the Avengers ever came along, if something happened to him – if he was shot, injured, abducted, missing – it was bad, but there was always hope, however small. Hope that he was still alive, that he was alright or that it would all be okay in the end.

It was never born from some sort of naïve optimism that had her clinging to every thread, but rather a realistic compartmentalization that she cannot accept defeat until it becomes concrete fact. It is part of what has made her a brilliant agent, because if there is even a _chance_, no matter how slim, she will seize it.

It's why during the Loki incident, she was worried daily for her partner – had trouble sleeping more often than not, in fact – but he was not dead and he was not necessarily permanently lost. There was a chance, there was hope, and that's all she ever needed to keep going. She's never once thought of herself as codependent, but she supposes that she and Clint have somehow effortlessly been _one_ for so long, that she suddenly feels like a crippled half instead of a complete whole without him.

Seeing Clint die, right before her eyes without a shadow of a doubt, was more than her partner dying. It was the strangling of the hope that always burned within her that he could come back – he always came back to her. It was the murder of the notion that things would still turn out okay, that he could catch her if she fell.

This is concrete fact, this is it: he is gone and can never come back to her again.

* * *

Natasha pours Bruce some tea while Thor cuts up fruit for breakfast. Tony is chattering incessantly about some new gadget he came up with during the night while Steve is perusing the comics section of a newspaper and _mm-hmm_ing every few minutes out of politeness.

She glances at the empty stool, feeling a pang of sadness spike in her chest.

Bruce catches her look and holds her gaze for a moment, warm and understanding, before turning his attention to the steaming mug before him.

Natasha lets her eyes wander to the bow and arrow mounted on the living room wall. They put it up together two weeks ago. She remembers the feeling of the arrow between her fingertips as she passed it to Thor, and the way she let Steve hold her trembling hand afterwards.

It can never be okay – the loss will never fully go away, especially for her because of what he meant to her. But maybe it won't be so painfully exhausting after a while, so acute and constant. These people, these freaks who are as messed up as she is, are hurting too but they're supporting each other. They're a team and that's how they're getting through the loss of one of their own, even if no one is specifically acknowledging it.

Years ago, if she had suffered this deep of a loss, she would have simply disappeared. Started over somewhere, anonymous and alone. Maybe she would have still been a spy, maybe she would have settled into some sort of normalcy, maybe something else entirely. Probably would have died alone, and no one would have been the wiser.

Now she has people that actually _care_ and she doesn't have that option anymore, not really. She can't simply disappear to drown in her grief and pain – she would make the others suffer two losses then, and she couldn't put them through that. Not only do they care about her, she's grown to care about them too, in a way she could have never predicted. They are, for better or for worse, a family somehow. She's read somewhere that family sticks together to make it through the darkness.

And this darkness is pretty damn dark.

* * *

The bag is still by her door a month and a half later.

**-end-**


End file.
